


Tailored

by TakeTheShot



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Competent Jaskier, Geralt didn't actually know that, Geraskier, Get Together, Jaskier is not a tiny little waif, Lots of kissing, M/M, but mainly theyre just horny here, confident jaskier, feelings are hard and now he has to have them, kissing and shenanigans, oblivious Geralt, realisations about relationships, the poor love, this was a joke that got away from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23953180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakeTheShot/pseuds/TakeTheShot
Summary: Since the day that they met Jaskier has not been one thing that Geralt expected. Why he hadn't imagined that the trend would carry on in the bedroom, he has no idea.A bit of smutty silliness with feels, in which Geralt is surprised to find that he has feelings for Jaskier, is surprised to find that those feelings are reciprocated and then is surprised one more time...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 36
Kudos: 280





	Tailored

**Author's Note:**

> So, here we go, my first dip of toes into the waters of The Witcher fandom, for which you can largely blame Joey Batey.
> 
> I saw a post on tumblr (I don't know how to link, but you'll probably have seen it and over there I am @taketheshot21) discussing how, despite the fact that Joey is pretty much the same height etc. as Henry Cavill, everyone keeps writing/drawing/talking about him as if he were wee tiny wisp of a twink, and I commented something like: 
> 
> "I need someone to write a fic where Geralt gets Jaskier naked for the first time and is just like 'erm, whut, you're all massive and hairy?'. And Jaskier just grins 'yep, the twinky look is better for business, how amazing is my tailor?' and then just tackles him to the bed"
> 
> and took maybe two days to admit that 'someone' was in fact me. So, here it is, slightly longer than expected and with more feels but hey, a fanfic got away from me, I'm not exactly shocked. Enjoy x
> 
> P.S. -I've watched the show and read a metric tonne of fic, and that has been the extent of my research of the universe. I don't think there's much in here I can have messed up in that regard, but if I have, my apologies.
> 
> \----------

“Gods, Geralt!” Geralt can feel the ripple of Jaskier’s laugh in his own chest, not surprising given that he’s pressed up against him, crowding him up against the door, but it shakes him, makes him want to get closer. Jaskier laughs again, “At least let me get the door bolted, alright? Unless you actually want to risk being interrupted by the rest of the inn?” 

He does not. Reluctantly, leaving his hands pressed to the wood either side of Jaskier’s shoulders, Geralt takes a step back. Just one, because now that he’s suddenly allowed to be in Jaskier’s space, to be touching him, just one step away is already one step too many. Impatiently, he watches Jaskier fumble the bolt across, trapping them in together – no - securing them in together. In a bedroom. 

With a bed. 

The implications are enough to make Geralt’s head spin. 

Job done, Jaskier turns inside the cage of Geralt’s arms, his lovely, lithe form brushing against him with every inch of twist in a move so obviously deliberate that it makes Geralt’s gut clench. He hears himself growl as Jaskier leans back against the wood and twinkles up at him, the invitation in his smirk almost more than Geralt can stand,

“There, now we’re all safe. So then.” His tongue darts out, wets his bottom lip, “Hello you.”

Now that _is_ more than Geralt can stand and he dives down to claim that lip for himself, to claim Jaskier’s whole mouth in a kiss. Their first kiss. He’s not gentle, he’s aware of being too strong and maybe he should, but he can’t quite hold the torrent of want back as far as _gentle_. Jaskier sucks in the tiniest of surprised breaths but then he’s kissing back, surging up to meet Geralt’s lips, nipping at them and he’s not gentle either. No, he’s demanding, urgent, almost feral and it rocks Geralt as much as it surprises. His body ripples in a shudder and he sucks on Jaskier’s tongue. The kiss goes on for long, unregarded moments, they’re licking their way into each other, opening, biting, tongues twisting and it’s so, so good Geralt allows himself to get lost in it a little.

Pleased as he is, he really has no idea how he got here.

_It had been winter, same as always, which meant returning to Kaer Morhen, same as always and leaving Jaskier for the season same as always, but somehow everything about ‘same as always’ this year had felt…off. Back in that first year, having silence return as his only companion on the trip had been a blessed relief after a long summer and autumn travelling with a distinctly un-silent bard. Listening to his chatter, the songs, the endless plucking at that fucking lute, the string of sounds had been never ending. Looking out for him because he was so much smaller, protecting him because he was so much weaker, watching him fall into and out of romance because he was so much prettier… exhausting. It had been a wonder for Geralt to get a break from it. But that trip up the mountain had been years ago and over the next few trips, the sense of blessed quiet had given way to just plain quiet and finally this year to more than quiet, to too quiet. Oppressively so. Geralt had had no explanation for it but by the time he’d reached Kaer Morhen the sense of wrongness, of something lacking, had set to buzzing deep in his bones. Even arriving ‘home’, seeing his brother Witchers and Vesemir, had done little to improve it. This year the keep seemed too grey, too dark, too big and yet his own skin felt too small and he’d stamped about the place with, in Eskel’s words, ‘a face a like a bear with a sore arse’ making his own life and, by default, the life of any Witcher unlucky enough to be snowed in with him, an angry misery. His brothers had tolerated his mood and he’d tried to join in with the weapons repair, story-swapping, fighting and eating that filled a usual winter but he’d known he was chafing on their nerves and had had no idea what to do about it. Nothing had felt **right**. Sparring had been the only thing that almost helped, the physical effort that facing up to another Witcher demanded, the concentration, sometimes made the buzzing in his brain die down for a while, so he’d filled his time with that, using the strain of fighting to hold back the other tension that threatened to snap him in two._

_That tension had broken at about the same time as Lambert’s wrist._

_“For fuck’s sake Geralt!” Lambert dropped out of Geralt’s hold to take a knee on the training floor and cradle his hand. He glared up at him, cursing, looking inches away from tackling Geralt down and giving him the kicking he deserved for going that hard during warm-up sparring, “No, fuck off,” he spat, shoving away Geralt’s mortified offer of a hand up, “you’ve done enough already, you gods-poxed bastard.” He walked away, snatching the sling Vesemir was already holding out for him and then whirled, taking the few steps back to poke Geralt hard in the chest, “You’ve been a total cock-end all winter, you know that? Next one, maybe you save us all the trouble of dealing with your miserable arse and fucking spend it with your sweet little bard if you miss him this fucking much, eh? Fucker.”_

_Then he stomped off for good towards the baths, already strapping himself up and leaving Geralt too stunned, too ashamed, to react. Or, apparently to notice Vesemir appearing at his elbow. He started guiltily and Vesemir snorted,_

_“Give him an hour, he’ll curse himself out.”_

_“I know, Vesemir.” He looked away from his old mentor, started clearing up, putting the training weapons and kit back in their places, anything to keep from having to think about the words Lambert had launched at him, about how they stung, what they might have meant._

_“And that’ll be healed up in a week. He’ll be fine.”_

_“I **know** Vesemir.”_

_“You, on the other hand…”_

_Geralt’s head jerked up, “Me?”_

_“Lambert does have a point, under all that profanity,” Vesemir’s eyes were kind, which was almost more terrifying to Geralt than the sudden pounding of his heart, “The Path is hard and long. Yours perhaps harder and longer than most. None of us would grudge you missing a few seasons here, not when you’ve found someone to love.”_

_“Someone to…” words failed him. Vesemir patted him on the shoulder and then walked off himself, leaving Geralt standing in the courtyard, gaping like a landed fish. The very idea, of him and Jaskier…no. Because they weren’t…he didn’t…Jaskier didn’t. A Witcher didn’t deal in love. Not with anyone, and certainly not a bard. They were too…different. They’d never fit. Even if Geralt did…which he didn’t. It was ridiculous._

_It had taken another two weeks, some more pointed remarks from his other brothers, more than a few bouts of getting himself punched, kicked and, just once, stabbed, plus a couple of cracked ribs and some long nights out hunting (ostensibly to bring Lambert the wild boar that seemed to be the only way to stop him bitching about his fucking wrist, but also because only the bitter white emptiness offered enough space to think) to understand. To understand that it wasn’t ridiculous, what they’d insinuated._

_It was real._

_Even in the privacy of his own head that admission had taken Geralt to his knees, but it was the only thing that made sense, that finally soothed the buzzing. Half terrified, half filled with wonder, Geralt had admitted to himself that Vesemir and Lambert had been right, of course they had, about everything. Right that he, Geralt, unreachable, unemotional, untouchable Witcher who needed no-one and wanted no-one needing him, was in fact, missing Jaskier. Had been missing him and doing it with enough fervor that he’d apparently made a pain in the arse of himself for all of this winter and maybe for several winters before._

_And once that realisation had settled, the rest had become thick and fast. First, more than just missing Jaskier, Geralt realised that he **wanted** him. Fuck, how he wanted him, with as much fire as his Witcher’s heart could hold. Once he’d allowed himself to see it, feel it the need had flooded through him in a shocking rush of flame, he was brimming with it and burning for Jaskier. Burning to see him, to smell his stupid fussy scents - fuck, **chamomile** \- to taste the column of his throat. Stuck in the middle of winter, trapped in the mountains and half a world of snow away from his bard, Geralt had been alight with wanting, twisting on a pyre as stark and agonising as any of his trials. He needed to hear Jaskier’s chatter - not inane he saw now, but full of life - to listen to his endless songs and even that damned lute. He wanted to make fun of his prissy doublets in those eye-watering colours and then wrestle him out of them – for a man so easy in his body and free with his affections, Jaskier had always been private, modest even, around Geralt when they travelled and suddenly he was desperate to see what he looked like outside all those layers - to talk to him, to touch him and to be touched by him, to see his own big hands on that frankly ridiculous waist, his scars against Jaskier’s supple smoothness, his size against Jaskier’s slightness. He wanted to make him moan and sob with pleasure, to treat him well, to buy him small trinkets just because he could, to take him wandering, show him the world and tell him…that he loved him. Because that had been the last realisation, of course it had. Lambert’s crude words forged into truth hard as steel and shining as silver - he loved Jaskier._

_The knowledge had almost consumed him. Certainly, it’d threatened to re-shape his world. Could that be…a possibility? For them? For him?_

_As the last storms beat round the keep, the picture of Jaskier in his mind had been so clear, his hair, his eyes, his lace and delicate hands, his lean softness, he’d almost been able to reach out and touch him. And he’d wanted to do that more than anything._

_Gods, those had been some long fucking storms._

_The first day the passes had cleared enough he’d been packed and mounted on Roach at first light, the only thought in his head being to get to Jaskier share this...insane and possibly perfect new reality._

_Exactly how he was going to share any of it, let alone find out if Jaskier felt in any way the same Geralt had naturally had next to no idea. In fact, when he’d found Jaskier in the little town at the foot of the mountains, sitting by the fire of his favorite inn, sipping ale and scribbling away at new lyrics; when Jaskier had leapt to his feet, delighted, and called, “Geralt! You’re early! Had enough of sitting on your lovely bottom in your castle already? Or is there an adventure in the offing?” even the words he’d had half-formed had been blown away by the shocking beauty of his grin. Geralt had frozen, wordless, immobile and useless. He’d been full of things to say, bursting, but no way to say them, Jaskier was…Jaskier. Friendly and open, clean and warm and refined and pretty and Geralt was, well. A Witcher. An unreachable, untouchable Witcher._

_But, in the end, he hadn’t needed any words. Seeing his halt, Jaskier, gorgeous, surprising Jaskier, had stepped close, met his eyes and stared at him for a long moment. And then his smile had bloomed,_

_“Oh,” he’d breathed, and he’d reached up to cup Geralt’s face, his palm so soft, so warm that Geralt hadn’t been able to help leaning into the touch, “Oh. Oh my. So that’s what it looks like. I…wondered if you’d ever realise. If I’d ever get to see it…oh, wow.” He’d bitten his lip then, white teeth denting into plush pink. Geralt of course had looked and Jaskier of course had noticed and raised an eyebrow, his eyes suddenly sparkling, turning wicked in a way that Geralt was well used seeing directed on others but that stole his breath now that it was pointed at him. He’d never felt so seen. “Roach already stabled?” Jaskier had asked, not even waiting for a reply, “Good. Alright then. I’ve a room upstairs. Come on.” And he’d taken Geralt’s hand, fingers curling sweetly in his palm and led him away and up, confident that Geralt would simply follow. And he had, resolved to restrain the bubbling volcano of his want to acceptable levels._

_Which of course, after watching that arse saunter up the stairs, had lasted precisely until the second they’d crossed the threshold of Jaskier’s room._

A sharp nip to his bottom lip brings him back to the present and the kiss breaks. Jaskier gasps, 

“Gods, Geralt, humans need to breathe, remember?” 

but the corner of his mouth is curled up wickedly, irresistible. Geralt growls, low, and shifts one hand to the back of Jaskier’s neck, scruffing him a little, just to feel his skin under his palm, just because wants to, because he can. Jaskier gasps again, his cheeks pinking, Geralt could eat him, he’s so fucking pretty. His knees sag, pressing more of his weight back against the door, back into Geralt’s hand and Geralt takes it, supports it reminding himself in the pull of lust that yes, humans need to breathe and they are also _breakable_ , especially ones of Jaskier’s size. And if he hurt Jaskier he’d never forgive himself.

But Jaskier isn’t remotely worried about that, is he? If he were, Geralt would smell it and Jaskier has never once smelled afraid in his presence. In fact, reeks of arousal and he’s eyeing Geralt, looking him over openly with an expression that can only be called _hungry_. Fuck, that’s intoxicating. Geralt’s not used to seeing that expression on anyone’s face, not for him and he shudders, _want_ and _need_ sparking down his spine. Jaskier grins, bringing one hand up to rest on Geralt’s waist, to squeeze reassuringly and then to stroke, his fingers moving slowly, slightly, teasing with such sweetness that Geralt almost misses his next words,

“There is talking that needs doing about this you know. And we are going to do it at some point soon, much as I know you’ll just want to ‘hmmm’ at me. But…” oh, Geralt thanks fuck, there’s a ‘but’ because Jaskier is stroking his side more firmly now and the heat of his hand through his shirt is going to make Geralt crazy before they get any talking done, “but you seem to be ready and I am oh so much more than willing, especially given that I’ve been waiting for you to ravish me since I was nineteen, so it can wait. So,” He drops his voice to less than a whisper, the tease, so that Geralt has to lean in close again, “all I’ll ask for now is this. What do you want?”

The question is breathed soft against his cheek and the tongue that follows it, teasing quickly round the shell of his ear and scooping his lobe between Jaskier’s teeth, almost entirely destroys Geralt’s ability to answer,

“Fuck!” He chokes, shivers threatening to send his own knees buckling, “You.” he manages, only the truth in him now, “All I want is you.” 

Jaskier releases Geralt’s ear, pulling back until the lobe slips out from his grip, a sharp nip that makes Geralt’s gut twist. “Well then,” he says, “my dear Witcher. You’d better have me.”

His dear Witcher. _His_. Geralt snarls with the weight of it, the joy, and twists a handful of Jaskier’s doublet in his fist, pulling to drag him in and kiss him again, hot and insistent. Jaskier stumbles, laughing,

“Hey! Give me a second to get my feet under me, there’s no rush.”

Geralt would disagree, because he wants Jaskier’s mouth and he wants it _now_ but there’s no need, Jaskier’s already pushing away from the door and standing forward to meet him, pressing his fingers in the small of Geralt’s back to pull him in close. He slots their hips together as he stands, literally uses Geralt to pull himself upright, almost climbs him until their mouths meet and the feeling is so good, so fucking _right_ that takes Geralt’s brain a good few seconds to register that this is not quite the angle he was anticipating. He’s not having to lean down for the kiss. Somehow, their mouths are on the same level and Jaskier’s hand is twisting in his hair without him having to stretch. That isn’t…is that right? Isn’t Jaskier shorter than him? He’s always _looked_ shorter than him… It’s a niggle that even the sinful feeling of Jaskier’s nails scratching against his scalp, the goosebumps rippling down his arms, can’t quite make his logical brain ignore and it stalls him. Jaskier, of course, notices,

“Geralt?”

What is he meant to say? I thought you were smaller?

“I thought you were smaller.”

Shit.

Jaskier just huffs another laugh into Geralt’s mouth, flicks his tongue against his top lip, “Well,” his voice drops deeper, grinning, filthy, “I’m not claiming it lives up to legendary Witcher standards, but I’m fairly sure I can hold my own in company.”

Which is not what Geralt meant at all but then Jaskier rolls his hips, sinuous and languid and fuck it, Geralt’s logical brain misfires, because their mouths aren’t all that line up and that aching pressure is…fuck. He’s usually on Roach, that must be it. Everyone looks shorter when you’re on a horse and there are far more interesting things to concentrate on.

Geralt groans and groans again when Jaskier rolls sinfully against him once more, gripping him by the shirt and pulling him close, licking his way into his mouth again. He’s hard, Geralt suddenly realises, Jaskier is _hard_ , Geralt can feel his stiff cock rocking hot against his thigh, grinding against it and gods but that’s so much, so much better than he could ever…his own cock throbs with a rush of blood and heat that’s so sudden that it’s almost painful. Jaskier wants him. He truly _wants_ him. Fuck.

Treading the edge of overwhelm, Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s ass needing him closer, needing more, pulls him in hard, his eager mouth swallowing Jaskier’s pleased gasp. His ass is a plush curve, exactly as round and peachy as it’s always looked, and Geralt kneads at it to enjoy the give of the muscle under his hand, the soft, muffled noises Jaskier makes against his lips. 

They are wearing entirely too many clothes.

His own shirt he gets off in seconds, the hardest part of the operation is staying out of reach of Jaskier’s grabby hands long enough to drag it up and over his head,

“Where are you going? Oh yes, naked, yes, that’s a very good idea. Ohhh, gods, look at you, oh look how gorgeous you are, come _back_ ,” 

but getting Jaskier topless is a lot harder. His doublet is unlaced, because of course it is, but the fucking shirt or chemise or whatever it’s fucking called is tied high round Jaskier’s throat in a fall of lace that just highlights the gorgeous smooth skin, the point where his pulse is clearly pounding and begging for Geralt’s teeth and he _can’t fucking get at it_. The laces are too small and too damn fiddly and his fingers are shaking and Jaskier isn’t helping because now he’s putting his hands all over Geralt, running across his chest, his back, _fuck_ , thumbing, _oh gods_ , round his _nipples_ , and the way his calluses catch is a sweet agony and he can’t wait, he _needs_ Jaskier’s skin like air and he needs it _now_ or he’s going to catch _fire_. 

Fuck it. He’ll apologise later.

Grabbing the shirt in either hand Geralt pulls, ripping the entire stupid thing straight down the middle.

“Fuck!” Jaskier gasps, startled, his pulse picking up even further, and then he groans, “Oh fuck, oh you beautiful _bastard_ , that was my favourite chemise. And also the hottest thing that has ever happened. _Touch me_.”

Which is exactly what Geralt is planning to do. Except… he’s hungry, so hungry for Jaskier’s skin but he can’t take his eyes off the way Jaskier’s face is twisting with desire, the way his pupils have blown wide evidence that he, Geralt, is wanted as much as he wants. He’s hungry for that too. Besides, Jaskier did call him a bastard, so… Taking in a lungful of Jaskier to steady himself (flowers and fever, wood oil and want, fuck, he really could get drunk on that) he puts his thumbs to the back of Jaskier’s neck and runs them, slowly, so slowly, round the sagging edges of his collar, just barely grazing against his throat, watches Jaskier shiver. When he reaches the front Geralt spends a good while teasing the hollow of Jaskier’s throat, revelling in the way it hums under his hands when Jaskier curses at him to, “please, please just get a fucking move on, _please_ ”, but eventually he reaches the end of even his Witcher’s patience. His heart kicks as he slides his hands under the ragged edges of the ruined shirt and feels Jaskier’s own heart skitter under his palms, pounding as he leans into Geralt’s touch. His skin is so fine, so hot and…wait. There’s something else under his palms too and he’s seen Jaskier’s open collars, he isn’t _blind_ , he was expecting a little…but this is…this is a fucking _forest_. It _curls_. Geralt blinks.

“Jaskier,” he says, choking on the name because Jaskier now has his mouth buried in his throat, is licking at his neck, “your chest, it’s…hairy.”

“Mmm?” Jaskier lifts his head just a fraction, “Oh, yes, of course. It’s not like I’ve been wintering at court and the threading thing is so fiddly, not to mention hard to find this far out.” 

None of which makes any sense but then Jaskier’s down again, sucking a series of messy kisses across Geralt’s collarbone and all at once he’s far too busy trying to stop his knees from buckling to even consider thinking about anything else. He bites back a groan, his fingers tighten, pulling a little, and the wounded noise Jaskier makes at that is the _sweetest_ sound. Jaskier’s breath comes harsh, his hips jerk and yes, that’s very worth investigating. Geralt twists his fingers again in all that very unexpected lushness and, oh, it’s soft. When he tugs on the thick hairs Jaskier’s mouth falters, he bites hard into Geralt’s shoulder with a muffled moan, 

“Ngggh, fuck, Geralt, you _tease_ ,” 

The sharp pleasure of it shoots straight to Geralt’s cock, his own hips kick forward of their own accord and as much fun as playing is, all at once he’s absolutely done with slow.

Jaskier huffs in surprise as Geralt spins him but the sound melts into a breathy moan as Geralt pulls him back hard against his chest, “Yesssss” he sighs, his head clunks back against Geralt’s collar bone and Geralt can feel the shape of his grin, “yes, now this is what I meant by ravishing. Have at it.”

Geralt snorts but can’t help smiling himself as he bends to nip at Jaskier's ear. Gods, the things this man makes him feel… He curls a hand round Jaskier’s hip, gripping, and presses forward again, rocking up against the round of Jaskier’s lovely arse. They’re snugged so tight together and the friction is almost unbearable, so desperately good that Geralt could almost lose it then and there, could almost give over to the instincts screaming at him to just rut up against Jaskier and his wicked curves, except he wants more than that, so much more, and he hopes…He rocks again, seeking that sweet pressure and Jaskier’s hand whips backwards, scrabbling, clutching at Geralt’s clothes,

“Fuck!” he pants, sweat dampening his hair at the temples, his scent spiking even as he pulls Geralt tightly to him, “I really hope that that was a question. Because the answer is yes. Absolutely, unequivocally and _immediately_ yes.”

Geralt’s whole body clenches with rich, dirty greed. There’s no way, no _way_ , he can deserve this, this gift he’s being given but gods, he’s going to take it and cherish it forever. First though, he’d better get it unwrapped.

Stroking his hands round from Jaskier's hips to the front of his trousers he takes a second to palm the fabric straining there, just until Jaskier swears and grips him hard enough to bruise, and then sets to the tear in Jaskier’s shirt. Quickly, he works round his waist, tugging the tails of his shirt free of his trousers. Jaskier groans but, because he is apparently a _demon_ , he keeps pushing into Geralt, squirming back demandingly onto his cock. Even when the shirt is free and Geralt’s hands meet at his back he doesn’t let up. Instead he tilts forwards, just enough to give Geralt space to work but not enough to relieve the pressure and Geralt thinks he swears himself but it’s so hard to tell over the pounding of his blood. Scrabbling up the last of his control he works his way under Jaskier’s shirt, palms his slim waist, the swell of his ribs and, as Jaskier moans again and arches backwards into the sweep of his hands, slides flat palms up his spine. At the nape of Jaskier’s neck, he slides them apart, goes to run them across his shoulders, to make him put down his arms so he can strip away the fabric that’s so absolutely in his way, but the slide just goes on and on. The distance from Jaskier’s spine to the round of his shoulder is improbably far and by the time the doublet and shirt hit the floor Geralt is staring. Jaskier half-naked is beautiful, he’s smooth, pale and fine-skinned, just as Geralt had imagined but he’s also…broad. Not massive, not muscular Witcher-broad of course but…broad. How is he so _broad?_ The image of Jaskier in his head doesn’t match the reality of Jaskier in front of him and it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t, and his cock screams hate at him for stopping but the dissonance of it freezes Geralt. He takes an involuntary step back and the room is small enough that his knees hit the bed. He sits down with a soft thump.

“Geralt?” Jaskier says, “I don’t mean to complain but my ravishment appears to have stopped and if you think I’m finished…” he turns and sees Geralt’s frown, “Is something wrong?” he steps forward, his voice all concern, “Look, this is happening…pretty fast, I get that. So if you’ve decided you don’t want to do this right now, hell, if you don’t want to do it at all, you only have to say, right?”

“No,” Geralt blurts, so quickly that Jaskier half-startles, “No, it’s not that, it’s not that at all. It’s just…” Oh gods, now Jaskier will think Geralt doesn’t want him and what does he say without sounding like the worst kind of shit? Would it have been too much to ask for one class at Kaer Morhen to have covered this kind of thing rather than yet another way of stabbing? He flails, falls, “how do you look like that?”

Jaskier’s forehead crinkles, “Like what?”

Fuck, he isn’t explaining this even slightly well, “Like _that_ … all…tall. You’re _tall_ Jaskier. With the chest…hair. And your shoulders, you don’t have…fuck,” he gestures helplessly, “where have those _shoulders_ come from?” 

“Where have my…” Jaskier frowns, then stops and claps his hand to his face, covering his mouth. 

With mounting horror Geralt watches as he screws his eyes up, turns his back and the shoulders in question start to quiver. 

Fuck. 

Fuck fuck fuck he should have kept his mouth closed, why couldn’t he? What good ever came from _talking_? He’s fucked this up, he knows he has, he’s fucked this up and now Jaskier will leave him, it could have been so good but he’s fucked it up. 

Geralt is just about to truly spiral down the rabbit-hole of guilt and self-loathing (whoever decided Witchers should be emotionless forgot to take _those_ fuckers away) when Jaskier snorts. Geralt snaps his eyes back to his shaking back and all at once realises. The little shit isn’t upset, he’s _laughing_. Geralt watches, thoroughly bewildered, as Jaskier turns back and visibly drags himself back under control, heaving a shaky breath and wiping at his eyes.

“Oh,” he gasps eventually, “I’m sorry, but your face Geralt! Oh, we’ll have to go back to Oxenfurt soon, I have to tell Madeleine.”

Geralt is utterly at a loss and he knows he looks it. “Who?”

“Madeleine. My very good friend who also happens to be an utter genius with cloth and my absolute favourite tailor. She makes all my clothes and she will absolutely die when she hears that she managed to fool even your infamous Witcher senses. She’ll be so smug she’ll start charging me extra, which I will be taking out of your contract fees by the way.”

He’s grinning but Geralt has no idea what he’s talking about and says so. It comes out tight and Jaskier’s grin dims a bit. 

“Oh, right. Of course.” He squats down, puts his hands on Geralt’s knees. They’re so warm. “It’s just…look. Being delicate and waifish and particularly non-threatening can be a real advantage in my line of work, because no-one wants a hulking great bard lumbering about their hall. However, even I have to admit that that, while I’m perfectly happy with what I’ve got, after spending years in the great outdoors following you around and most of them while walking thank you very much, I’m not quite the pretty little twink I was at nineteen. So, Madeleine’s artistry…helps. A shifted waist here, a shoulder set there, loud patterns, details, lace, she does amazing things with them all. And when I wear them it…fools the eye. Just for business. A little push to empty coin purses. And because I like colours.”

Oh. Geralt is more than familiar with his love of colours. He can’t help but roll his eyes, "And lace.”

Jaskier smiles up at him, “Well, lace, of course lace. And the rest is just moisturiser and a little exaggeration in places.”

“It’s clever. She’s…very clever.”

“Thank you," Jaskier says softly, "I’ll tell her. But it’s just…armour. You know?”

Geralt nods because he does know. Boy does he know. And while there’s nothing wrong with it, while it sounds perfectly sensible, clever even, he still feels like he should have seen, should have thought at least. But he didn’t. And now the moment is fading and as much as he wants to, he doesn’t know how to get it back and make things right.

Lucky for him, as always, he has Jaskier.

“The thing is,” Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s knee as he stands, his tone is full of indulgent amusement, “once the armour comes off I’m afraid, what you see is what you get.”

To emphasise his point, he turns a in slow circle, not so much a twist as a sensuous whole-body roll that shows off every lean stretch of muscle, every plane and curve of his torso and he is so beautiful that Geralt’s mouth goes dry. His arousal, which had hardly even flagged, flares hot and sparking in his gut. Jaskier finishes his blatant display facing Geralt, hip popped, one hand resting there lightly. His blue eyes are twinkling wickedly and when they flick down to the ties of Geralt’s trousers, his grin becomes a frankly filthy smirk. He stares at Geralt, but while he cocks his head in a challenge, he is clearly confident that he’s already won, “Is that going to be a problem?” 

Of course it isn’t. Not even slightly. His loveliness, not much different from what Geralt had imagined but still so much better, makes Geralt _ache_. How could anyone see Jaskier and not want him? Geralt’s sure he never will. Pretty happy with what he’s got? Fuck that, Jaskier is stunning. And even if he wasn’t? It wouldn’t matter. He’s _Jaskier_. 

Meeting Jaskier’s stare, Geralt tries to put into his eyes everything he doesn’t have words for, everything he wants Jaskier to know and he shivers when Jaskier’s smirk widens into a genuine grin. Geralt shrugs, “I’m sure I’ll get my head round it.”

“Oh, is that so?” Jaskier laughs delightedly his attempt at sass, “Well then, while you’re getting your head round that, I’ll just have to get my mouth round something else.”

Geralt just has time to open his arms before Jaskier’s weight hits him and tackles him down to the bed.

Later, and they’re lying tangled together, Jaskier’s head pillowed on Geralt’s arm, back pressed to his chest, sweaty, sticky and stated. Geralt’s combing his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, holding him close and it’s absolutely possible, no, _certain_ , that he has never been this happy. Jaskier yawns, stretching against him like a sleepy cat and chuckles,

“Melitele’s tits, that was wonderful.”

Geralt smiles, “It was.”

He snuggles in closer, “It’s probably a good job though that I’m not the waif you were expecting. Or you’d likely have broken me in half with that thing.”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt groans, feeling the absurd beginnings of a heat in his cheeks, “I wasn’t expecting…don’t exaggerate.”

“No, I mean it, I’m fairly sure that someone actually as twinky as I pretend to be couldn’t have managed to take all your gorgeous Witcher cock and that would have been a real…”

“Jas,” Geralt interrupts, because while the teasing is gentle and there are things that he suddenly, right now needs Jaskier to know, “you don’t, with me I mean, I understand, but…you don’t have to…pretend. To be someone you’re not. I…just the way you are, I mean, I...” he feels Jaskier’s waiting silence. He swallows hard and offers the best he has into it, “I love you.”

Jaskier practically melts into his side, and then he turns and lifts one warm hand to cup Geralt’s jaw, “Oh Geralt my dear heart, I know that.” He guides Geralt down for a kiss, it’s soft and sweet and perfect and leaves a promise on Geralt’s lips, “I would like to know though, if you want to tell me. How you worked it out.”

Geralt grimaces. “I didn’t, exactly. I had it pointed out to me. By Lambert of all people. And then Vesemir. And then several of the others. Apparently my pining was sappy and irritating even though I didn’t know I was doing it.” He shakes his head ruefully, not entirely sure how Jaskier will receive this story. It isn’t exactly romantic. “They basically told me I’d spoiled winter by being an arse and to come find you to sort it out. But with more swearing.”

But Jaskier just laughs. Already there has been so much laughing. “Oh,” he says, “I do wish I’d have seen that. A Witcher intervention. Still, at least they won’t have that problem next winter. You won’t have to be pining away and irritating them up there in your mountains, not now you know I’ll be waiting for you when you come down again.”

He sounds a little wistful and an idea drops fully formed into Geralt’s mind. He says it out loud, quickly before he has chance to overthink it, “Actually, I wondered if you might come with me next winter. The keep’s huge and there’s open fires, fur rugs. All those dark evenings, you and me, I thought, maybe, if you want, we could show them what sappy and irritating really looks like?”

Jaskier’s grin is blinding, “Geralt of Rivia,” he laughs, “you are a terrible, terrible man and I love you so very, very much. Of course I’ll come.”

Geralt’s still reeling from that double blow to the heart (Jaskier loves him! he’s coming with him for winter!) when Jaskier takes his lips again and then everything, literally everything is lost in wonder. They kiss, softly and sweetly, Jaskier guiding, whispering endearments and Geralt practically purring with pleasure, until sleep slides in and claims Jaskier. He drops off slowly, going soft and lax in Geralt’s arms, with Geralt’s name on his lips and when his eyes finally close Geralt scoops him up, cuddles him to his chest, keeping him close and warm. 

He takes a watch. 

He’s not tired exactly, and definitely not ready for this day, this first day of theirs to be over. The room is darkening but a quick burst of _igni_ to the hearth, the candles, fixes that, and Geralt listens to the flames crackle as he lies, watches the shadows dance. The kind of peace he feels is nothing he ever dared long for, let alone expected to have. 

But then, why should that be any kind of shock?

Nothing about Jaskier has ever been what he expected, even in the very beginning and that’s hardly likely to change now. Still, Geralt reflects, smiling as Jaskier murmurs in his sleep, hooks one long leg over Geralt’s thigh and snugs further under his arm, he would not have it, or him, any other way. Despite any surprises or doubts or differences, he knows too now and it’s beautifully simple. They’re a perfect fit.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have comments, I would love to hear them :)


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